The Captive Soul

by Josepha Sherman

  Have to warn Methos!

  He wasn’t sure the archaic walkie-talkie would work indoors. MacLeod stuck his head back outside, whispering, “He’s on his way.” That would have to be good enough, he thought; no time for more. Light from outside shone through the open doorway, glinting off—ha, yes, those were the marble steps of a stairway leading up. MacLeod ducked back inside, letting the door close behind him, sprinted over the body, and dashed up the stairs as quickly as he could in the once-again total darkness. He wasn’t going to get to the roof before Khyan—

  But damned if I’m going to let Maxwell die.

  Be ready for us, Methos, just be ready!

  “Oh soul of a king, hear me, heed me, fear me.

  Oh soul of a king, I rule you, control you, torment you…”

  Gesturing and chanting with all his might, Methos thought dryly that he was, indeed, putting on quite a show. Some of the chant was in genuine Hyksos and Egyptian, but most of it was made up as he went along: It really had been a long time since he’d spoken either language.

  “Oh soul of a king, oh soul of a foe, heed me!

  Oh soul of a king, you are my slave!”

  Is this going to work? Am I making a fool of myself for nothing?

  Ha, do I even want it to work?

  “Oh soul of a king—”

  The sudden sharp crackle of static cut through his words. Snatching up the walkie-talkie, Methos heard “He’s on his way.”

  Want it or not, the paper trail and “ritual” were working. Methos braced himself, heart racing. In another moment he, too, was going to be sensing Khyan’s presence. And with any luck at all, MacLeod and he would have Khyan trapped between them.

  So they did. Unfortunately, Methos saw at once, it wasn’t exactly as they’d planned. Yes, he felt the sudden familiar blaze of warning. And yes, that was definitely Khyan who had just appeared out of the night, framed melodramatically by flashes of lightning. Dressed as he was in modern American clothing, the former Hyksos prince could have been any Near Eastern young man.

  Any Near Eastern man, that was, who happened to have utterly mad, blazing eyes, a gleaming sword in one hand—and a small, slight man caught as a hostage in the other. Some curatorial staffer, presumably, who had picked a really bad night to work late!

  No, Methos realized in the next moment, the hostage was none other than Professor Albert Maxwell himself, babbling frantically and incoherently in English and Arabic at his captor, who was ignoring him.

  Does Maxwell recognize me? Methos wondered with a flash of alarm. No. The night’s too dark. And after all, he’s only seen me once before.

  And did Khyan recognize Methos? No telling: That savage, fierce-eyed face showed no comprehensible emotions at all.

  “Give me the sword.” Khyan’s voice was harsh, heavy with a miscellaneous tangle of accents and a wildness that was barely being formed into words. The blazing eyes stared, unblinking as those of a snake and still showing no sign of recognition, straight at Methos. “Give me the sword, or I will kill this man.”

  Insanity beyond anything he’s ever shown before, Methos thought. And despite all he had seen in his life, all he had done, he felt a chill of genuine horror steal through him. Utter, utter insanity.

  For here was every Immortal survivor’s nightmare brought to life: the total loss of self. It was difficult enough for Methos to hold fast to what he was at the heart of him, to the basic “Methos,” after all the years and experiences. But this… While the body he faced still lived, nothing at all was left of the true Khyan, not judging from those terrible, empty eyes, nothing after so many centuries of madness but the unbreakable will to find and free his brother’s soul.

  One good thing about it: Khyan was definitely too far gone to realize the trap. Not by the slightest twitch of a muscle did Methos betray that MacLeod had appeared on the roof, too, and was circling around behind Khyan.

  Unfortunately, Maxwell was far too terrified for common sense. “Help me!” he yelped at MacLeod. “In God’s name, help me!”

  Khyan whirled, dragging his captive around with him, and Methos, knowing he’d only have a bare second’s advantage, lunged with the weapon at hand—not his own sword, he realized a heartbeat too late, but the Hyksos blade.

  Warned by some insane instinct, Khyan twisted about again, dodging. He lost his grip on Maxwell, who went flying and then scrambled up and wisely scurried away without so much as a glance back.

  Khyan never noticed. Lightning blazed off the length of his blade as he attacked, shrieking out something that might have been his name, slashing at Methos again and again with a graceful, deadly savagery, never giving Methos so much as a second’s respite in which to draw his own sword.

  Wonderful, wonderful, I’ve got a three-thousand-year-old weapon, worn-out bronze, barely an edge—

  He caught a glimpse of MacLeod’s alarmed face, but damn it, of course Duncan couldn’t interfere, not in a duel between Immortals.

  Does he have to play so utterly by the rules? Of course he does; he’s Duncan MacLeod. Methos dodged, slipped, landed on one knee with a jarring thump. But I haven’t lived this long by being stupid!

  There was always grit on any Manhattan rooftop, and a hastily thrown handful hit Khyan full in his eyes. As the Hyksos clawed fiercely at his vision, screaming his rage, Methos quickly backed up out of range—only to have his escape blocked with a jolt by the stone parapet rimming the roof, and here came the lunatic charging blindly forward, about to spit him—

  “Wait!” Lying frantically, Methos warned, “Break this sword, and your brother’s soul dies forever!”

  Khyan stopped short, just barely in time, so frantically he actually staggered back a few steps, giving Methos, finally, the chance to draw his own sword, awkwardly juggling the Hyksos sword, transferring it to his own left hand, since he dared not put it down and risk Khyan getting it. In another second—

  To Methos’s shock, the prince threw back his head with a keen of anguish. So horrifying was the sound, so utterly inhuman, that Methos, for all his peril, stood frozen. In that primal instant, the centuries slid rapidly away; in that primal instant, he was not of the twentieth century, the modern age, but a man of an ancient, ancient time, when “natural” and “supernatural” were one and the same. And it hardly seemed surprising that the heavens should open and rain come pouring down as though in answer to Khyan’s wild grief.

  “All these years,” Khyan shrilled, “all the long, long empty years have I kept the faith!” His words were a hodgepodge of English, Arabic, Hyksos, all the languages he’d learned in whatever snatches of sanity had been his. “All the long, empty, miserable years have I hunted for my brother’s soul! All these years—no longer! I will not let my brother suffer anymore!”

  Methos came crashing back into the twentieth century as Khyan charged him. Their swords clashed, the shock of impact nearly staggering Methos. He’d always said an ignorant swordsman was far more dangerous than an expert, being less predictable or sensible of peril—now he could add “insane” to “ignorant.” Nothing ignorant here, but nothing predictable, either, no pattern to Khyan’s thrusts or cuts or lunges, and Methos was getting cut far too often without being able to figure out his opponent’s mad style.

  “Watch the eyes,” the swordsman’s wisdom went. “You can predict his next move from his eyes.”

  Oh, right! Nothing in there but chaos.

  He decided to try a little madness of his own. Lunge like this, like this, drive Khyan back at least a few stumbling steps, open up some space between them.

  But Khyan, twisting like a snake, dodged, ducked, caught Methos’s sword in one hand, never mind that the edge was cutting him to the bone. Methos did his own frantic twisting, nearly wrenching every muscle in the effort not to lose his weapon, flailing with his left hand to slam Khyan across the side of the head with the Hyksos sword. Not as hard as he’d have liked, not at that awkward angle, but at least Khyan had to let go of the trapped blade—r />
  No predicting a madman. With a roar, Khyan threw himself at Methos, hurling him back with such stunning force that Methos banged his head painfully against the stone parapet. He held grimly onto his sword’s hilt—but Khyan tore the Hyksos sword free and leaped up onto the parapet.

  No, you don’t, damn you! You don’t escape this time!

  That meant leaping up onto the parapet himself, even though he was still dizzy from that slam on the head, even though the cursed stone was slick with rain and alarmingly narrow, dueling with a madman who had the proverbial madman’s strength.

  A three-story drop—I hate this, hate it! Can’t see where I’m stepping, can’t lunge, can’t retreat. Death by falling—hate the whole idea! If we both go over the edge and he recovers first—

  All right, be just as insane. Lunge—yes! Hook Khyan’s sword with his own, twist, yes! He tore the hilt from Khyan’s hand and sent the blade flying who knew, and who cared where.

  Off balance, sure he was falling, Methos hurled himself at Khyan: Take the enemy with him. For a mindless few moments, they grappled together, Khyan doing his best to get both hands around Methos’s throat. Choking, Methos bit down on the nearest target, Khyan’s arm, so hard that he tasted coppery blood, trying not to gag. Khyan tore himself free with a shriek—

  And went hurtling backward off the parapet. Methos almost followed, struggling frantically to catch his balance. MacLeod’s hand closed about his arm just in time, dragging him, panting and shaking, back onto the roof. No chance, though, to give MacLeod more than the briefest of nods.

  Not the end of this, Methos thought breathlessly, of course not the end of this.

  He and MacLeod exchanged quick, understanding glances, then raced down the Collection’s stairs, out onto the now rain-slick sidewalk after Khyan.

  Methos got there first, part of his mind thinking sardonically that now that the worst of it was over, he finally had the chance to use his sword sanely.

  Well, maybe not quite the worst of it. Duncan MacLeod, being the ridiculously honorable man he was, might have waited for Khyan to recover.

  I am not Duncan MacLeod.

  Even so, Methos hesitated over the limp (but of course not finally dead) body for the barest instant, surprising himself by realizing that he was saying a final farewell to a long-ago time, and perhaps to a long-lost self.

  What, he thought wildly, sentiment after all these years? and struck. He caught a quick glimpse of MacLeod staring at him—

  And then the full effect of the Quickening hit him, the savage blaze and impact of being, of life-force, of sheer, wild insanity, and for a time out of time, Methos was lost in the familiar fierceness that was not-pain, not-pleasure. He was himself, he was Khyan, seeing so many faces, so many times and places. For those wild, wild moments he was all the ones he’d known, all those he’d slain over all the millennia, over all the long, long years of life and experience, of joy, grief, despair, passion, and it was almost too much, almost beyond all bearing….

  And in the last moment of it, he saw, or thought he saw, two figures of light merging into one, then fading into the night. Khyan and Apophis reunited?

  Then, mercifully, it was over.

  Methos was dimly aware of having fallen to his knees, but right now all he could do was huddle there in the pouring rain, too drained to move, testing out his mind the cautious way a warrior might warily probe at a wound to see if it was healed, half afraid of pain, trying to see if he was once more a single, whole, sane Methos. And he was truly glad in that helpless moment of reintegration of self that MacLeod was far too honorable for treachery.

  And life wins out over death yet again. And… surprise, surprise, I do want to go on living after all.

  But something was wrong. All about him, the fierce flashes of light and savage roar were continuing unquenched, along with a blaring, ear-hurting wail—

  The flashes, he realized in the next instant, were merely lightning, the roar merely the noise of the storm. And that wailing? Car alarms, triggered by the force of the Quickening. A quick glance about showed a good many store windows cracked or downright shattered.

  Oh joy. At least the Quickening would have been disguised: “Helluva storm we’re having,” and all that. Bet there are reports of a lightning strike in the area.

  At last Methos could get shakily back to his feet—to find that MacLeod was watching him oddly.

  “What?” Methos asked.

  “Ah, nothing.”

  “What?” he insisted.

  Reluctantly, MacLeod asked, “Did you see, just for an instant…”

  There was a pause.

  Then Methos shrugged, a little too enthusiastically. “A trick of the light.” He shivered, sneezed. “Let’s go get ourselves a nice, peaceful drink.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  Together, the two men walked off into the night.

  Afterword

  In the modern story: New York City is as accurately portrayed as this New Yorker dared make it. However, just because the Branson Collection may occupy the same space as the Frick Collection, it is not to be confused with the Frick Collection, nor, to the best of the author’s knowledge, is there actually a Branson Foundation!

  As for the past story: Although time has been a bit telescoped for purposes of that story (and consistency with the Highlander timetable), the Hyksos really did invade and conquer Egypt circa 1700 B.C., though experts still argue as to whether it was a gradual invasion or one concerted attack, and they really were expelled after a hundred years of occupation, mostly through the efforts of Pharaohs Kamose and Ahmose, somewhere between 1600 and 1560 B.C.

  The Hyksos were almost certainly a branch of the Canaanite people from Palestine, though little else is known about them. There is as yet no evidence as to whether or not they had a written language. They may or may not have been dictatorial toward the conquered; the view of them given in this book is very much from the Egyptian side, and the accounts of freedom fighters are seldom charitable toward those they consider oppressors!

  Did the Hyksos rituals worshiping Set really involve human sacrifice and dismemberment? There’s no evidence one way or the other. But since Set was said not only to have slain his brother Osiris but to have dismembered the body, it seemed a plausible extrapolation.

  As for the settings: Memphis really had been sacked by the Hyksos to the point of near destruction, Thebes had not yet risen to prominence as the powerful capital of Egypt, and Nefrusy really was nearly razed by a furious Pharaoh Kamose. The description of Avaris, the Hyksos stronghold, is taken from the recent excavation reports of Professor Manfred Bietak.

  Many of the characters in this book are historical, and are listed below in order of appearance:

  Pharaoh Sekenenre really did die in battle, presumably against the Hyksos; his hastily embalmed mummy still shows his death wounds and dying grimace.

  Pharaoh Kamose, his older son, reigned for only about three years. It’s assumed that he, too, died of battle wounds; there’s some evidence that he didn’t live long enough to take part in the siege of Avaris. Most of his speeches in the book are taken from his actual words.

  Pharaoh Ahmose, Kamose’s younger brother, or possibly half-brother, did succeed to the throne at a very young age, either as a teen or (some evidence indicates) possibly even as a preteen. He grew into a strong ruler who expelled the last of the Hyksos, beat back the Nubians, and brought Egypt back to prominence as an independent power.

  Dowager Queen Teti-sheri, grandmother of Ahmose (and possibly Kamose), was a lovely, delicate-featured woman, judging from the one surviving statue of her, a commoner who caught the eye of a pharaoh and who survived into her seventies or eighties. There is no evidence that she had any psychic abilities—but then again, there’s no evidence that she had none!

  Queen Ahhotep, of mixed Egyptian and Minoan blood, never appears onstage in this book, but was every bit as strong a personage as is implied in the story: She held the south of Egypt safe f
rom Nubian attack, and possibly also served as regent for a time for Pharaoh Ahmose. She was remembered by him in an inscription honoring her for her help to him and Egypt.

  King Apophis—who, according to the Egyptian accounts, did send that insulting message to Sekenenre—about the Roaring hippos—was, indeed, defeated at the Siege of Avaris, where he presumably was slain. We know nothing about his appearance or personality, other than that he was said to be a worshiper of Set, to the exclusion of any other deities.

  The Ahmose referred to in this book as Ahmose-the-Soldier was a commoner, a career soldier who rose through the ranks all the way to admiral. It was the fashion in his day for the famous or well-to-do to leave their autobiographies on the walls of their tombs, and it is from Admiral Ahmose that we have the only firsthand account of the battles against the Hyksos, in particular of the Siege of Avaris.

  For those wanting to read more about the period, and on ancient Egypt in general, the following are relatively recent, easily attainable books:

  Bietak, Manfred. Avaris, the Capital of the Hyksos: Recent Excavations at Tell El-Dab’a . London: British Museum Press, 1996.

  Clayton, Peter A. Chronicle of the Pharaohs: The Reign-by-Reign Record of the Rulers and Dynasties of Ancient Egypt . London: Thames & Hudson, 1994.

  Grimal, Nicholas. A History of Ancient Egypt . Oxford and Cambridge: Blackwell Publishers, Ltd., 1992.

  Manetho. (The writing of) Manetho . Translated by W. G. Waddell. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1940.

  Pritchard, James B. The Ancient Near East, A New Anthology of Texts and Pictures , Volume II. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975.

  Quirke, Stephen. Ancient Egyptian Religion . London: British Museum Press, 1992.

  Redford, Donald B. Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in Ancient Times . Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992.